


Place of Truth

by dashwood



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-07 08:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10356663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: Liz doesn’t stay with Sam for long. Instead she's recruited by the Major, leaving Red to frantically search for the little girl he had sworn to protect. Years later, Liz reappears in Red's life - this time as a highly trained operative who is tasked to gather intel on him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> “I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say.”  
> ― Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca

“How long will you be gone this time?” 

Liz watches through the mirror as he shrugs his shoulders, the corners of his lips turned down in an unhappy twitch. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to offer anything else, so she just heaves a sigh and lets it go for now. Instead she turns away and continues with the removal of her makeup - the mascara, slightly smudged after an evening out; the rosy blush and nude lipstick (she briefly wonders if he even noticed that she had tried to dress up for him. He didn’t say anything though, and now she feels a bit like a child playing dress up with her mother’s pearls).    
  
After a moment there’s the rustle of clothes, and Liz cocks her head to the side, follows the movement of his fingers from the corner of her eyes, watches as he unbuttons one button after the other to reveal the white undershirt beneath. There’s a speck of hot-pink lipstick on the inside of his collar which she pretends not to notice. It wouldn’t do any good to start a fight; she’s too tired and he’ll be gone again in the morning anyway. 

“Shall I bring you anything?” His tone is quiet, appeasing. It’s his way of apologizing for the many business trips he has to go on, as if his frequent presents would somehow make up for all the time spent apart. She wishes he would stop. It never fails to make her feel worthless, as if she’s nothing but a high-end prostitute offering him the whole girlfriend experience, no strings attached. 

“Another perfume? Some jewelry?” He pauses for a second, and when he continues Liz can hear the teasing smile in his voice. “Something to match that lovely new dress?” 

Laughing gleefully, she turns back and sticks her tongue out at him like an unruly child. “So you noticed after all?” 

“Of course. You looked stunning.” 

Liz muffles her amused snort in a wet towel and wipes her face clean off any makeup rests before flinging the used cloth into the wash bin and leaving the bathroom.  

Reddington is already in bed, the white undershirt glaringly bright in the otherwise black room. Swiftly, Liz crosses the room and slips into bed beside him, shuffles her freezing feet closer to the warmth of his body and giggles in delight at the strangled hiss he gives when her ice cold toes bump against the bare skin of his ankle. 

As soon as she’s settled in his hands wrap around her waist, pulling her pliant body close. Unthinkingly, Liz turns her head to capture his lips in a heated kiss, mewls softly as he encourages her to move onto his lap and straddle his waist.  

In the cover of darkness they make love. 

 

\-- 

 

It’s still painfully early when she wakes up.  

Next door, Reddington is quietly whispering, and Liz thinks that he must be on the phone with someone. His voice is hushed; he’s mindful not to wake her. Sighing, Liz keeps her eyes tightly shut and snuggles further into the comforting warmth of her pillows. She’d have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for Hudson’s uncanny ability to sense her wakefulness. 

Within mere seconds the dog has crashed onto the bed, enthusiastically waggling his tail as his wet nose does its best to stab her left eye out. Liz shrieks in surprise and attempts to save herself by fleeing under the covers. Her one-man-rescue mission is interrupted only a moment later when Hudson’s arrival is followed by Reddington’s amused chuckle, sounding slightly husky so early in the morning.  

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

He gently pulls Hudson away by his collar, and within seconds the mouthful of dog fur is replaced by a soft peck pressed to her furrowed brow. 

“It’s alright,” she mumbles drowsily, her brain still somewhat sleep-addled despite the rude awakening. “I guess it’s time for his morning walk anyway. Are you leaving already?”

He gives her a pained smile. 

“I see,” she sighs in resignation and brings her hand up to rub her eyes. “What time is it?” 

“Almost 5 am.”   
  
Groaning, Liz mimes going back to bed, even gets as far as to pull the comforter over her head before he’s dragging it away again, chuckling wholeheartedly at her childish antics. And she likes it when he’s happy, she thinks. It makes him look younger. 

“You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye, right?” 

“Of course not, sweetheart. I wouldn’t have dared.” 

“Good.”  

With a satisfied smile - she’s trained him well - Liz leans in and presses a quick peck to his lips before finally climbing out of bed. And because she knows he’s watching she makes sure to add a little extra sway to her hips as she walks towards her underwear drawer. 

Raising herself onto the tip of her toes, Liz leans over a bit more than strictly necessary while her fingers fish through her lingerie, the frilly panties and brightly polka-dotted bras soft against her skin. All the while she can feel his appreciative eyes on her, and she can’t quite suppress a sly grin at the thought that right now, he must surely be staring at the spot where his shirt had ridden up on her thigh to expose her slip. 

“Will you still be here when I get out of the shower?” 

“Dembe is waiting outside.” 

She makes a noncommittal sound somewhere between an annoyed huff and a contemplative sigh. “One of these days we’ll have to talk about this…I feel like we spent most of our relationship apart.” 

“I know, sweetheart. Trust me, I don’t like it either.” Even though his tone is laced with regret Liz can’t quite help but feel like he’s patronizing her, as if he’s comforting a whiny child. She doesn’t want him to think of her as annoying or clingy though, and she’s just about to backpedal, maybe shrug her shoulders in nonchalance so he’ll feel less guilty about leaving her behind, when he crosses the distance between them and kisses her. It’s quick and passionless, and Liz knows that it’s because he’s running late.  

“You’ll call to let me know you’ve landed safely?”   
   
“Of course.” 

“Alright. Then I’ll just…,” She gives him a sheepish smile and takes a step into the direction of the bathroom before suddenly remembering something. “Oh, right! I almost forgot - Good luck with your presentation!”  

With a blindingly bright smile she brings her hand up to smooth her fingers over his tie. It’s already overly neat and perfectly knotted, and all she does is manage to crook it slightly to the left. He takes it in stride though, merely huffs a good-natured laugh before turning away from her to leave at last. 

It’s only moments later that she hears the front door fall into lock behind him. 

Liz sighs, feels her shoulders sag as she ducks into the bathroom to take a quick shower. Once she’s finished, she twists her towel-wet hair into a tight bun at the top of her head and turns towards Hudson. 

“Alright, boy. Who’s ready for his morning walk, huh?” 

The dog barks in excitement as Liz takes his leash from the table. Grabbing her bag in the same motion, Liz throws a quick glance inside to make sure that she’s packed everything she needs for the day: There’s her pencil case and her students’ homework assignment marked liberally with red ink; a bottle of mineral water and a few coins which’ll pay for her lunch (she quickly picks out the British Pounds Reddington had mindlessly thrown in with the rest of her change when he had returned from his latest trip to Europe); a notebook and - of course - her favorite book, a well-read, heavily dog-eared edition of _Rebecca_. 

With Hudson in tow Liz makes her way out the door and down the street. It’s a lovely morning, the late summer sun shining brightly despite the early morning hour, and for a moment Liz wishes that she had chosen something lighter to wear, something more flowy.  

Once they’ve made their way around the block and through the little neighboring park - the same as everyday, - Liz turns into a small, darkened side-alley. She doesn’t stop until she’s reached her favorite diner; a small establishment, a bit of a hole-in-the-wall, and Liz is quite sure that Reddington would adore its intimate 80s small town flair if she ever brought him here.  

The man behind the counter nods at her in acknowledgement as she ducks inside and makes her way past the sparsely-vacated booths into a hidden corner right in the back. There’s an old payphone squashed away between empty storage cardboard boxes and an atomic-meltdown-worthy amount of conserved pickles. Liz throws in a few coins and patiently waits for the ringing to stop. Once it does, the protocol comes easy to her.   
   
“I’m having a problem with my account. Number Delta, Sierra, 453.”


	2. Chapter 1

_5 months ago_

She spends her afternoon sitting outside a quiet little café somewhere in the South of France.

Hudson snoozes contently at her feet, his fuzzy head resting comfortably on her right foot, and Liz thinks that he had better not drool all over it. What a day to wear ballerinas - but the lovely spring weather wouldn’t have allowed for the high-closed flats or comfortable sneakers she usually preferred.

With a miffed sigh, Liz looks down at the mass of fur dozing at her feet. She specifically asked for an older dog when she was at the shelter just so she could claim to have owned him for several years already. It’s all a farce, of course. The dog is nothing but an accessory - like an oversized pair of sunglasses or a regretted tattoo on the inside of her thigh - something to build her persona.

Still, the dog is absolutely vital to her credibility: Dangerous people don’t own dogs; they can’t afford to have a routine.

A quick glance at her watch is followed by another sigh. Reddington should be here any moment now. At least that’s what Tom had told her when she had asked him to gather some intel on Reddington’s weekly schedule. She’d have done it herself, would have slipped on a blonde wig and formless hoodie and trailed after him for a few days, but people like him usually keep a whole entourage of highly-trained guards, and it wouldn’t have done her any good to be spotted early on.

Plus, this way she had had more than enough time to prepare herself accordingly. To get her story straight. Get Baltimore highlights and a dog.

When she finally spots him rounding the corner Liz can feel her treacherous heart pick up speed, and within mere seconds it’s racing ferociously against her rip cage.

The sudden onslaught of nerves takes her by surprise; she’s usually much calmer, more collected, but looking at him now she wonders if she has prepared herself well enough for this little game of hers.

Because even though she’s seen pictures of him, studied candid shots and grainy security footage of broken-in embassies and hotel rooms, Liz isn’t quite prepared for just how intimidating he looks up close in his impeccable three piece suit and matching fedora (as if he had just stepped out of an Alfred Hitchcock film – suave and undoubtedly dangerous).

In a vain attempt to collect herself, Liz crouches down next to Hudson and ruffles her shaking hands through his rugged fur. The happy bark he huffs out in response to her touch soothes her nerves even as she observes Reddington from the corner of her eyes. From the looks of it he’s getting an espresso (double shot of vanilla) - just like she knew he would.

Just as he turns to leave, Liz gets up and determinedly makes her way towards him through the many rows of outdoor tables and matching chairs. Hudson trots happily at her side, perfectly in step with her as if he had been following her around for years now.

While she’s steering towards him, Liz makes sure to put on a show of clumsy distraction, divides her focus evenly between Hudson and the insides of her bag, and it isn’t too long before she’s crashing right into him.

The air is knocked right out of her, her breath hitching almost painfully inside her throat even as she reflexively brings her hands up to halt the impending impact of their collision. The whole scene lasts only a fraction of a second, and yet it’s more than enough time for her to feel the solid frame and muscles hidden beneath his suit (and of course there’s also the holstered gun carefully concealed by his jacket). She doesn’t doubt that he’d easily be able to take her in a fight, and she silently prays that she’ll never see the day he finds her out.  

Liz makes sure to turn _just so_ to make his drink spill over her bag instead of down her shirt – because even though she’s certain that he’d enjoy the view of a wet blouse clinging temptingly to her bra and glistening skin just like any man would, there’s no need to risk any unnecessary burn marks if it can be helped.

With a surprised shriek tumbling from her parted lips, Liz stops dead in her tracks and rushes to mumble out a string of apologies.

“Oh, fu- Je suis très desolée, monsieur! Pardonnez-moi!”

She doesn’t bother to disguise her accent. She wants to make it glaringly obvious that she’s not from around here because as far as she knows he’s fluent in French and she’d rather not negotiate the terms of their relationship in a language she learned on an app on her flight to Europe.

Thankfully, he catches on though. “Oh, no! I’m _so_ sorry, please allow me.”

When he begins to dab her bag with a handkerchief he gallantly produces from his suit pocket, Liz pretends not to notice that he’s skillfully checking the contents of her bag for firearms or concealed FBI credentials.

Liz hopes that her things haven’t taken too much of the spill, but a quick glance inside her bag a moment later lets her know that her copy of _Rebecca_ is pretty much done for. She’ll have to look for a bookshop on her way back to her rented room; she’d rather not go to bed without a distraction tonight, and so far her favorite novel has always done the trick. And either way, sacrificing a book is a small price to pay for establishing a first contact with her mark.

But this is the brilliance of her trick, really. It’s all so awkward and clumsy, so glaringly obvious that he’ll think that no covert operative could possibly be bold enough to try this particular con on him.

“Oh thank God, you’re English! I wouldn’t have known how to ask for your dry cleaning bill in French. But then again that’s probably a good thing - I’m not so sure I can afford it.”

He chuckles warmly, clearly amused by her obvious distress and charmed by her wit alike - again, just as she knew he’d be. After all she’s crafted this persona especially for him; every look, every word is meant to appeal specifically to him. Now she’d only have to make him realize that she was just what he had always craved - his secret, most desperate fantasy come true.

“It’s quite alright. It’s just a small spill, no harm done. And it looks like your bag caught most of it - I hope it hasn’t done too much damage?”

In lieu of answering she just gives him a pained smile. She doesn’t want to seem too eager about keeping up a conversation with him, so instead she begins to shuffle through her bag, puts on an annoyed frown as if the things inside actually mean something to her and she’s sad to see them splattered with fast-drying stains of coffee blotches.

Her momentary distraction gives him just enough time to take in her appearance, and Liz inwardly hopes that she’s chosen the right persona and outfit for him. She’s made sure to dress up; donned on a cute summer dress with a light jacket in the hopes of looking as much as a freshly-baked elementary school teacher as possible.

It’s a far cry from the women he must encounter in his line of work; all the she-wolves and alpha women, elegant and refined - yet deadly.

Liz isn’t like them though. Or at least that’s what she wants him to think. Where the others are cold and vicious, Liz is soft and innocent. Where they are just waiting for a chance to strike and sink their teeth into him, Liz is patient and willing to sooth his bleeding soul. She’s warmth and light personified. She’s _safe_.

“You’re not from here?” He asks after a moment of silence and Liz looks up as if surprised to find him still there.

“Oh no,” she shakes her head, tugs sheepishly at Hudson’s leash. “We’re on vacation. It was supposed to be a romantic weekend getaway with my boyfriend, but we broke up a couple of weeks ago. The trip was already booked and paid for though, so now it’s just Hudson and me.”

He nods in sympathy - ever the polite psychopath next door - before smiling genially at the dog sitting unconcernedly at her feet.

“Well, if you two wouldn’t mind some company, I was just about to get an early lunch. There’s this absolutely _lovely_  little bistro just down the street.”

Liz makes a show of biting her lip in contemplation. She needn’t seem too eager; that’d surely tip him off that something is amiss. In his line of work he must be naturally suspicious, and Liz can only imagine what he’d do to her if he ever suspected that she is a fraud. It’s safer to play it slow and let him wait, make him work for it.

And it seems she made the right choice too, because after a moment of silence he continues, his tone pathetically hopeful.

“Of course I’d understand if you’re otherwise engaged. There is simply so much to _see_ and _do_  around here - one wouldn’t know quite where to begin.”

She fakes a laugh because now he’s just being silly. The village they’re staying in is ridiculously tiny; everything’s just a bit remote except for one or two little bed & breakfasts right on main street. It’s clearly nothing but a sleepy little small town - charming but boringly uneventful at the same time (and Liz can think of no reason why a high-class criminal would even be here in the first place).

Still, the town couldn’t provide a more romantic ambience for her. Its southern flair and solitude make it the perfect spot for enamored lovers who want to escape the tediousness of daily life and enjoy some privacy away from friends and family (or their respective spouses, Liz adds cynically).

“And I guess you’d make a fantastic tour guide?”

“Why, of course.”

There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that makes him look slightly mad, and for a moment Liz isn’t too sure if she can do this. If maybe he will prove to be a challenge she couldn’t possibly come out on top of.

“Kenneth Rathers, a pleasure.”

Liz bites back on the raging flames of fear licking cruelly at her insides, and beams up at him. Brightly, innocently.

“Elizabeth Keen.” She says at last, and when he returns her smile Liz knows that he is hooked.

\--

_Now_

 

Liz keeps her eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling.

There’s a little spot on the otherwise blank wall that’s just a smidge darker than the rest, and she wonders if it’s mold or merely an insect; maybe a spider or a fly or even a mosquito. She hopes it’s just a speck of dust, but makes a mental note to check again in the morning. It’s high time she cleaned the apartment anyway, but between posing as a 4th grade school teacher and maintaining a relationship with her mark she hasn’t found much time for anything else.

She’s trying hard not to focus on Reddington moving above her, the way his fingers dig into her hips, the way his breath tickles the soft baby hairs on her temple whenever he exhales a strained groan, the way the hairs on his legs brush against her bare skin.

The way he stretches her almost painfully.

He always turn the lights off before he comes to her. He insists on it, and Liz is secretly glad for it. She doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to miss the privacy the lack of light affords her.

The darkness makes it easier for her mind to roam.

She thinks about Tom, briefly tries to close her eyes and pretend that it’s him who’s nuzzling her temple and pawing at her waist. It doesn’t quite work though; Reddington feels different beneath her fingers and his voice is too dark - his rugged moans and breathless sighs of pleasure resonating deep within her belly. It’s hard to imagine anyone else when she’s with him.

She wonders if he’s thinking about someone else too.

About Masha.

Deciding that she should probably take a more active part, Liz gives a low whimper and claws at his shirt-clad shoulders. It seems to work because a split second later his rhythm picks up speed, and Liz hopes that he’s close.

It’s always the same with him. For the most part their sex life is boring and stale. Unimaginative. But this is what he secretly craves and therefore it’s what she offers him. Safety, monotony and normalcy. An ordinary, mundane and altogether uneventful life.

Routine.

When Reddington starts to pepper a string of feather-light kisses against the sweaty skin of her neck Liz deliberately closes her eyes, and in the darkness of her mind she makes a list. It’s what she does whenever she’s feeling uncomfortable, when she doesn’t want to deal with what’s happening around her, when she wants to run far away and leave everything behind.

She can’t though, doesn’t dare.

So instead she mentally goes through all the things she knows about Reddington.

His name is Raymond Reddington; they call him the Concierge of Crime.

He’s dangerous, a ruthless killer, a monster.

He’s a loner, keeps his distance. He travels freely through foreign lands. He’s rootless. He’s comfortable sitting on her couch with a glass of scotch, but would be just as comfortable sleeping in a cave with rebels or sharing dinner in some hole-in-the-wall noodle shop. His closest friends are strangers. He understands that tight bonds can make him vulnerable so he’s careful not to have any.

Even so...

He drops everything whenever Masha needs something.

As his thrusts grow more frantic, Liz digs the heels of her feet into the mattress so she can push herself upwards and lightly suck at his pulse point. He tastes salty and slightly tangy, but she doesn’t want him to look at her when she’s doing this. Faking orgasms is hard enough without being scrutinized.

When he finally rolls off of her Liz feels a wave of relief wash over her. She’s glad for the space and the rush of cold air that fills her lungs and blows pleasantly over the layer of sweat coating her limp body.

It takes a few moments, but when she finally finds enough strength in her to move Liz shifts closer to his side and rests her head on his chest. He moves almost instinctively, and a second later she feels the weight of his arm settle around her waist, accompanied by a barely audible sigh – lazy and wholly sated.

In the quiet of the night, Liz wonders if Masha can make him feel this good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liz's profile on Red was taken from The Freelancer.
> 
> Well, this got a bit dark towards the end, and I'm not too sure how well it worked out, so feedback and criticim is very welcome!


	3. Chapter 2

_5_ _month_ _ago_    
   
 

“Reddington asks you something, like some little thing you don’t know and you think it’s gonna trip you up - just sneeze.” 

Liz groans and rolls her eyes - which turns out to be a mistake because it causes her lashes to stick together in a lumpy heap of freshly-smeared mascara. It leaves ugly smudges too, painting the skin around her eyes dark, and Liz tries hard not to think about the last time her eyes looked this black and blue (a blown cover and a raging Major; at the end of the day she had been a trembling mess, her eyes bruised and swollen, her lip split, her hair sticking in bloody strands to her aching scalp).  

“For fuck’s sake, Tom. I’m not an amateur, you know.” She grinds the words out, her face twisted into as much of a snarl as a woman can afford to make while applying make up.  

“Yeah, but you’re usually more of a hit-and-run kinda girl.” Tom drawls, his tone overly condescending and yet so matter-of-fact that it makes him sound like a middle-aged professor cornering an innocent, young freshman girl. “You’ve barely taken on jobs that take longer than a week.” 

And well, if he puts it like that… 

Liz stops fixing her mascara, slowly lowers the brush, and frowns at the mirror. “You think I’ll be doing this one for long?” 

On the other end of the line, Tom clicks his tongue in thought.  

“Could be. Major said he hasn’t heard back from the client yet. You could be in there for just a few days or a week. Worst case, it’s years.” 

There’s a pause before Tom’s laughter - vicious and biting - rings through the speaker.  

“At least you won’t have to worry about becoming pregnant - I doubt the old bastard’s good for that anymore.” 

Liz feels a bitter taste in her mouth.  

Because of course she’s heard about this before, has heard of operatives who have been working the same cover for years, who have gotten married and settled down in a house with a picket fence somewhere in the suburbs. Operatives who have eventually fallen pregnant and are now raising children - actual little human beings with their hair and eyes, and their marks’ noses.  

The thought makes her sick. 

Still, for one short, sweet moment Liz closes her eyes and allows herself to imagine what it would have been like to have a life like that.  

Some semblance of normalcy.  

A sheltered childhood and loving parents.  

She could have gone to school, Liz thinks, could have had sleepovers at friends’ houses or taken riding lessons. She could have had her first kiss behind the gym after school, sweet and innocent and by mutual consent alone. She could have gone to college. Liz thinks she would have liked to study psychology. Maybe then she could have helped others instead of ruining lives.  

She takes a deep, cleansing breath. Her eyes are starting to burn and if she keeps going down that road she’ll have to reapply her mascara once again. 

Meanwhile, Tom is still merrily rambling on; something about Austria and leatherjackets, and apparently he’s getting a Nazi tattoo now. After a while, his words start to blur together into a steady stream of background mumblings. Liz is glad for it though, glad to have the noise, glad to be able to at least _pretend_ that there’s someone here with her. Because the venomous thoughts in her head thrive on silence, turn louder and louder until they’ve drowned out everything else, and Liz can’t deal with that right now - with all the self-pity and man-made misery.  

Instead, she resolutely tries to focus on her mission. 

Reddington should be here any moment now. He’s picking her up for their first date and Liz finds herself wondering if he’ll take her to some overly elegant restaurant - romantic candlelight and slow music playing softly in the background. If maybe he’ll order her an exotic cocktail in a foreign language, pull out all the stops just to impress her like a preening schoolboy on his first date. 

Either way, she’s made sure to play her part accordingly. She’s got it all planned out too; she’ll make sure to be running just a little late before sheepishly ducking into her bedroom with an apologetic smile and a promise to be out again in just a second. That way he’ll get a chance to look around her modest apartment, take in the collection of children’s books lined up neatly on one of the shelves, the lovingly potted plants (daisies and white carnations) standing right next to the framed photographs of her with her family and friends (all carefully photoshopped, of course).  

Ever since she rented the place three weeks ago, Liz has been busily filling it with assorted trinkets and useless knickknacks. The furniture is slightly mismatched too, and everything is just a bit inexpensive - a bit too bright and yet cheerfully cozy. Still, it’s got charm though, even if Liz would prefer something a bit more traditional and homely for herself, maybe a modern loft with lots of open space and naked stone walls.  

When the bell finally rings to announce Reddington’s arrival, Liz gives herself one last glance-over in the mirror. She can only hope that he won’t notice her clammy hands or the tinge of red coloring her cheeks - a visible manifestation of the adrenaline rushing through her veins. Try as she might, Liz can’t remember the last time she was this high-strung and anxious about a job. But then again, none of her previous marks had been as intimidating and dangerous as Reddington.  

With a hastily mumbled _I’ve_ _got_ _to_ _go_ , Liz ends the call before Tom can give her any more advice. When the dead static of the phone gives way to a deafening silence, Liz takes a deep breath, puts on a bright smile and opens the door.  

 

\-- 

   
_Now_  

   
 

It’s been a long and tiring day at work; somehow she had never anticipated just how vicious and exhausting children can be until she was forced to spend seven hours a day with them. Right now, all she wants to do is throw herself on her couch and enjoy that bottle of Merlot she’s picked up on her way home. Maybe she’ll be adventurous and pair it with some canned peaches too. Or she could always treat herself to some Chinese take-out; She rarely bothers with the cooking when Reddington isn’t there, having neither the patience nor talent for it. 

With a relieved sigh, Liz slips out of her heels and disgruntledly kicks them into a corner. 

Just as she’s rounding the corner to the kitchen, there’s a shuffle of feet behind her, cheap soles dragging over the floor and mixing with the rustling of polyester clothes and worn leather. It’s all the information she needs to know that this isn’t Reddington but someone else - a threat.  

Heart beating fast, Liz whirls around and comes face to face with two men. 

For a brief moment, the silliest, most useless thought flashes through her head: because Liz can’t help but note how impossibly out of place they look in her flat - their dirty jackets and torn jeans clashing with the hand-drawn artworks of her students and the tame flower print of her couch cushions. 

Neither of them is saying anything, there are no threats or demands, just a deafening silence. To Liz, it seems like they are wondering how to proceed, if they should just put a bullet in her head or wait the whole situation out. It suits her right, though. Gives her a moment to study their faces - see if she can place them. 

The one leaning casually against her fridge looks like the archetypical goon, if Liz has ever seen one. A broad set of shoulders squeezed into a roughed-up leatherjacket with biker patches sticking to its lapels. His features are wholly unimpressive, blurring together into what has got to be the most average face Liz has ever seen. His stature is awful, too. Shoulders slumped slightly over, and it’s enough to tell Liz that she could easily take him down in close combat. 

The other one looks slightly more distinguished; a nose that’s obviously seen its fair share of bar fights, a tight line of thin lips, and bushy eyebrows which seem to be etched into an ever-present scowl. His watery eyes dart around the room as if he’s expecting someone to burst through the door at any moment now, and good, that’s good, Liz thinks. Reassuring, too. Because it means they aren’t here for her, but for Reddington - which consequently means that they have no intention of harming her.  

Not yet, anyway. 

While Liz is still standing rooted to the spot in her best impression of a deer caught in the headlights of a racing car - limbs frozen at her side, eyes welling up with fear and desperation - Eyebrows slowly approaches her with a disgusting leer on his face. Liz inwardly groans at what she knows is about to come. After all, damsels don’t fight back. 

Eyebrows raises the hand cradling the butt of his gun, and seconds later, there’s a sharp flash of pain, followed by a dull throbbing that slowly ebbs away as it gives way to unconsciousness. Within mere seconds, everything goes black.  

Her last conscious thought is that her blood had better not leave any stains on the carpet. 

When she eventually wakes up - seconds, minutes, hours later - Reddington is there. 

“Oh, look at that. Your princess is awake.”  

Goon snickers and if Liz weren’t gagged and bound she’d punch him in the face, see if he finds _that_ funny. Instead, she puts on a look of utter panic and turns helplessly to Reddington, her face the perfect picture of the scared, little girlfriend. 

But when she finally meets his eyes, Liz stops dead. Reddington looks completely detached from the whole situation, his eyes cold and empty as if he couldn’t possibly care less about any of this, as if it’s merely some banality - a small inconvenience.  

And it terrifies her, it really does. Because until now, she had thought - foolishly, naively - that he must care for her at least a little. After all, they were going out. He stayed over at her place whenever he was in town, he took her out to dinner and various black-tie events. Hell, he even kept some of his suits at her place, and if that isn’t the first step towards commitment then what is? 

But to see him like this? To knows that all this time she had been nothing to him - someone to keep his bed warm at night, someone to sit across from him so he wouldn’t have to eat alone? Just another girl in a port? 

It’s hard to grasp. 

Liz swallows past the sudden lump in her throat.  

Still, Liz can't quite clamp down on the rising awe and admiration she feels at his display of calm. Liz can appreciate a carefully crafted persona, even if she can’t be sure that this right here is the real Reddington - if she is finally catching a glimpse of the ruthless criminal, of the monster peaking out from behind the mask of the suave gentleman - the man the Major had warned her about so many months ago.  

“How about this - my friend here will go and have some fun with your girlfriend while you discuss business with our boss. The sooner you come to an understanding, the better for her.” 

The cacophony of his vile laughter mixed with Reddington’s persisting silence rings in her ears even as she’s being hauled into the bedroom. But then Eyebrows kicks the door shut behind them and everything is quiet once again, save for his heavy breathing - quick and unimaginably excited at the prospect of what he’s about to do to her.  

He throws her on the bed, and Liz grimaces at the cracking sounds of her wrists as they are squashed against the mattress. She just hopes that nothing’s broken; in her line of work she can't afford to fall flat for several weeks. 

Eyebrows is on her in an instant, forcing the hard line of his knee between her legs until he has managed to part them under his weight. Reflexively, Liz turns her head away from him, and as she feels his reeking breath span over her cheek, she keeps her eyes glued to the door and waits. 

One beat.  

Two beats.  

There are no raised voices, no gunshots. Reddington isn’t coming for her. 

The _bastard_. 

Above her, the goon is clumsily peeling of her tights, his sweaty paws grabbing her here and there as if she were nothing but a piece of meat. A puppet.  

Screwing her eyes shut, Liz makes a list of her favorite places.  

There’s the cozy little flat she keeps downtown - her very own safe haven filled with what few trinkets and keepsakes she has amassed over the years. Books and dresses and presents by particularly besotted marks which she has nonetheless deemed worth holding on to - Liz keeps them all carefully hidden away from the prying eyes of the Major. 

Then there’s that sweet coffee shop on main street, and the lovely flower shop that is just around the block from her current flat. There’s this seedy club somewhere in Berlin that had made her feel so anonymous and carefree for just one short night back in December of last year, and that abandoned hunting cabin somewhere deep inside the Canadian woods which she had once stumbled over during a hiking trip with a mark a few years ago. 

And then there’s this place - not a house, but not quite a farm either. The memory is distant and hazy, its edges blurred with age and disuse. Still, if she concentrates hard enough, she can almost bring it back, can almost make out the swaying trees and vast fields surrounding the old building. Everything is so homely and quiet. There’s even a fireplace casting its orange light over the wooden floorboards and making them feel wonderfully warm beneath her socked feet.  

Liz presses her eyes shut even tighter as an intense feeling of warmth and belonging seeps out of the memory - a feeling so vivid that she can barely imagine having ever felt this content and safe, as if nothing in the world could possibly harm her. As if there was someone watching over her, caring for her.  

Protecting her.  

But all of a sudden the memory shifts.  

The calming tick-tocking of an old grandfather clock picks up speed until it turns into an ominous knock at the door, and the deep voices - whispering in hushed tones, always so mindful not to disturb her peaceful dozing - change in pitch, distort and twist and suddenly there is a glaringly loud cacophony of noises: aggravated shouting and deafening gunshots. There is a danger so real and imminent that it almost swallows whole the pressing, urgent need to -  

_RUN_. 

Ripping her eyes wide open, Liz focusses back on the present, clenches her teeth as her assailant fumbles helplessly with the zipper of her dress.  

Liz throws one last glance at the door and - asserting that Reddington isn’t coming for her - rolls her eyes in barely-concealed annoyance. It looks like she’ll have to rescue herself. Fine. 

With a long-suffering sigh, she brings her knees up and kicks Eyebrows in the groin before twisting her upper body to the side and freeing her hands. It takes her a few seconds, but fortunately it seems like tying people up wasn't one of the goons' specialty. 

Meanwhile, Eyebrows has recovered and if the furious scowl on his face is anything to go by, he isn’t particularly happy about the sudden turn the situation has just taken.  

Liz couldn’t care less of course, just knocks him out in a quick series of well-placed punches. The moves come easy to her, it’s routine - something all of the kids in the Major’s employ have to go through, and something she’s been practicing with Tom and Jolene ever since she’s been 12. 

Taking one last look at the man’s unconscious form where he’s fallen facedown onto the floor, Liz sneers and grabs the gun from the waistband of his pants before slipping quietly out of the bedroom. 

As she passes the bathroom, Liz briefly considers clambering out of the tiny bathroom window. She could just climb down the fire escape and call it a day, go downtown to her flat, drink some wine and read a book. She reckons she’d have about two days - tops - before the Major’d show up at her doorstep. 

The thought of the Major - displeased and wrathful - is enough to make her turn back towards the living room instead. Because regardless of how she feels about any of this, the fact still remains that the consequences of acting out against the Major would be even more painful to bear.  

So she moves towards the living room - quietly, stealthily. 

Liz ears them even before she rounds the corner. Despite the danger of their current predicament, Reddington’s rumbling baritone sounds smooth and silky. Composed.  

Careful not to reveal her presence, Liz leans forward and risks a glance around the corner. There isn’t a lot to see; Reddington is facing the other way, but still the rigid set of his shoulders betrays his apparent discomfort. He seems high-strung - not nearly as calm and contained as she’d have thought given the growling timbre of his voice.  

From her vantage point, Liz is able to get a clear view of the other man’s face. Much to her surprise, it’s not the goon from before, but yet another man. Liz thinks that it must be the goons’ employer - the one who wanted to discuss business with Reddington. His face is twisted into a grimace of gnarled flesh and angry scar tissue, and Liz’s left hand comes up to subconsciously touch the skin of her right wrist.  

“- isn’t who you think she is.”  

As soon as the words slip out from between the stranger’s twisted lips, Liz feels her blood run cold. Her stomach gives a violent jerk and suddenly her hands are trembling, and she can barely hold on to the gun pressing against the cold sheen of sweat coating her fingers.  

And it’s strange, Liz thinks, how there was a semblance of a normal life five minutes ago, but nothing but uncertainty five minutes from now. 

Reddington’s voice is impossibly dark when he finally replies.  

“What are you saying?” 

His words - spoken so softly, as if whispering them would somehow strip them of their implications - are almost drowned out completely by the sharp ringing in her head, hot and boisterous and so very scared. Right now, the only coherent thought that is flashing through her head like a bright red warning sign is that she has to stop this. 

_Now_. 

Before the stranger can reveal any more damning information, Liz makes a decision. In one swift movement, she raises her gun and pulls the trigger. As if suspended in slow motion, the man’s body falls to the floor, arms trashing and throat gurgling bright patches of blood onto her floor. 

And it feels so _good_. 

Even as her stomach gives a violent lurch at the never-ending current of feelings that stream through her as if a floodgate had just been opened. There's guilt for failing the Major - for having to blow her cover or risk a further exposure in front of her mark. And of course, there’s also the gratifying satisfaction of having eliminated a threat, of having survived yet another day. And then there’s the staggering relief that rushes through her every fiber because now she is finally able to drop this pitiful charade. 

She’ll finally be free of Reddington. 

(And for some unfathomable reason, she doesn’t feel half as happy about this as she had always imagined.)   
   
Liz gives a shaky exhale and drags her eyes away from the near-lifeless form writhing in agony on the floor just in time to see Reddington whirl around to face her. And as she keeps her gun trained steadily on him, Liz watches as the light slowly drains from his eyes until there’s nothing left but utter betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait; I got side-tracked by another fic of mine. But as always, feedback and criticism is very welcome and much appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we are. I've wanted to explore this AU for ages now, and I've finally gotten around to outlining it. It'll get slightly darker, probably nothing too explicit though. Let's see if I can write up a better redemption arc for life-infiltrating Major kids than the show... Apart from that: I hope you enjoyed, feedback and criticism is always very welcome!


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